


Station

by yeaka



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Anal Fingering, Dom/sub, Dominance, Established Relationship, Father/Son Incest, M/M, PWP, Roughness, Submission
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-15
Updated: 2017-05-15
Packaged: 2018-11-01 00:59:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,875
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10911057
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: Legolas pays for his insolence, apparently just the way he wanted.





	Station

**Author's Note:**

  * For [TheTVJunkie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheTVJunkie/gifts).



> A/N: Fill for thetv-junkie’s “18. "If you insist". Thrandolas and rated explicit and with very kinky content. Thranduil being the dominant partner” request on [my tumblr](http://yeaka.tumblr.com/) [from this list](http://yeaka.tumblr.com/post/160417565360/prompt-list).
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own The Hobbit or The Lord of the Rings or any of their contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

Thranduil isn’t amused at the late hour, the way Legolas struts into his quarters at half past the time he was explicitly told to arrive. Thranduil’s less amused by the flippant attitude with which Legolas wipes his boots against the rug before Thranduil’s door, as though Thranduil didn’t make himself quite clear on gallivanting out with the guard right before their meetings. He prefers his lovers _not_ to still have dirt beneath their nails, and Legolas smells distinctly of the woods. 

Thranduil rises from his dresser, where he’d been idly brushing his hair and watching his son’s entrance in the mirror. His crown is already set aside, but the rest of his robes are intact; he’s still very much _the king_. His subjects include his prince, no matter how exempt Legolas seems to think himself. 

Legolas strolls right up to Thranduil, stopping to lift onto his toes and press a chaste kiss to Thranduil’s cheek. His eyes are already half lidded, the mood already set. But Thranduil can see the hidden smirk. Sometimes, he thinks Legolas is trying to rile him on purpose. Others, he thinks he’s just bred a natural little heathen.

As Legolas turns to wander for the bed in the center of the grand chambers, Thranduil growls, “You are late, ion nín, and from the guard, no less.”

Legolas shrugs his slender shoulders, pausing mid-step to glance over one. “I am still here.”

Thranduil curtly snaps, “Not when you were told,” and just about anyone else would cower in the corner from it. Legolas’ plush lips do fall into a frown, but he doesn’t crumble as he should. He’s been testing the boundaries, Thranduil guesses, or perhaps trying for _more_.

He mutters crossly, in a tone that should _never_ be given to a king, “If you are going to bark at me like some common servant, why do you not end this and just return to treating me as such.” It isn’t phrased like a question so much as a dare.

And Thranduil spends one frozen minute letting that insolence sink in. His eyes make it very clear that Legolas has decreasing time to take it back.

Legolas only meets Thranduil’s stare, as bratty as ever, despite a few centuries to his name. 

So Thranduil, finally having reached the end of a long rope, answers quietly, “If you insist.”

Legolas has one fraction of a second to lift one golden brow before Thranduil has darted a fist into his hair. For all of Legolas’ honed reflexes, he isn’t swift enough to stop his father, who wrenches him back and turns him—Legolas is slammed into Thranduil’s chest, facing out, throat pulled taut over his broader shoulder. Legolas opens wide in a strangled gasp, eyes flying open. Thranduil holds him in place, bent at an unnatural but enticing angle, and stares down into his clear blue gaze. There’s still time, of course, to end this—Legolas knows what to say to still him. But Legolas uses neither words nor actions to free himself, only waits in Thranduil’s cruel grip. Thranduil hisses over him, “I have never treated you like a servant, ion nín. If I did, and you had still chosen to walk into the bedchambers of your king, you would have known to do so on time, or they would not have been open to you.” Legolas knits his brow together, clearly confused, and Thranduil continues, “Or do you really think I would allow a body such as this to go unused, simply because it did not share my blood? I assure you, pet, you would be mine either way.”

Now Thranduil waits for a response, but Legolas only murmurs breathlessly, “ _Ada_...”

“Nor would you dare to come in clothes,” Thranduil growls, cutting Legolas off by grabbing at his collar and ripping away the laces of his tunic. They slither out and go flying across the room, while Thranduil’s fingers hook into the open v they left and jerk down hard enough to rip the fabric. Legolas cries out but still does nothing to stop it. Thranduil shreds the tunic straight down the middle, then spreads it to expose Legolas’ creamy stomach, the long arch up to his chest held at a particularly delectable view. His lungs beat hard despite his stillness, and Thranduil can see the slight flush that trickles down his face. Turning to graze blunt teeth along the aristocratic curve of Legolas’ ear, Thranduil purrs, “You would be only a warm body to me, then. One that had no right to hide itself from its lord.” He gives Legolas’ tights the same treatment, shoving them down one thigh, and Thranduil pushes harshly Legolas forward, grabbing his tunic in the same instant. It’s pulled clean off him as he topples to the floor.

Legolas catches himself on hands and knees, though those knees collapse as the disheveled tights unexpectedly pull them together. His hair falls loosely about him, unwinding from the crinkle Thranduil had twisted into it. His spine makes a luscious curve across the ground, his full rear exposed to halfway down his thighs. He’s a truly beautiful specimen, no matter what role he plays. He dares to look up at Thranduil with both shock and anticipation written into his fair features. Thranduil is careful to check for fear, perhaps even disgust, but there isn’t any. Thranduil eyes him for a moment, and he stays put and takes it.

Then Thranduil sinks down, low enough to catch one boot, and he rips it off with a glare—a servant would’ve known to do this for him. Instead, Legolas does nothing as Thranduil discards the second boot, then grabs the tights and steadies a hand against his ass, pulling them free the rest of the way. Legolas whimpers, but he lets himself be stripped. When Thranduil’s finished, there’s nothing but pristine skin and silk-soft hair to play with. Legolas is lightly trembling, likely not just from the open air, and it only makes it more alluring. His stubborn attitude has abruptly fallen away, as, perhaps, he’d meant for all along.

Thranduil doesn’t mind playing games. At least, so long as he’s still in control. He looms over his son, letting his own hair fall across Legolas’ shoulder, and he purrs into Legolas’ ear, “Or, perhaps, you wish to be less than that: an animal... since you insist on behaving like one.”

Without any warning, Thranduil shoves a hand between Legolas and the wooden floor, wrenching him up by it—Legolas’ breath hitches in surprise, and he scrambles for purchase on all fours. Thranduil shifts the arm lower, hooking just beneath his stomach, where his cock bobs against the crux of Thranduil’s elbow. Thranduil runs his other hand around Legolas’ slender neck, tracing his throat and feeling his adam’s apple shudder, then coming around to his nape and shoving him down. Legolas turns his face just in time, his cheek hitting the ground. Thranduil pins him down and hisses, “Perhaps I should put a nice collar around your neck, so all know who you belong to, and none would dare to keep you out late. Is that what you desire, ion nín? To be so wholly _owned_?” 

Legolas makes a keen whining noise, his eyes scrunching shut. His face twists into a pained look, but Thranduil knows it must only be from the wholly undignified position—Legolas could easily buck him off. Instead, Legolas ruts his hips forward, letting his cock slap Thranduil’s forearm, and Thranduil nearly seethes with scolding. He didn’t raise his son to be a _beast_. But he also never meant to raise Legolas to where they’ve ended up, and he finds he doesn’t want to change it.

Legolas finally tries to twist in his grasp, simply testing the hold, and Thranduil asks, “What is wrong, my dear? Are you hungry? Perhaps you wish to lick your master’s boot.” Legolas’ eyes shoot open, thickly dilated, and Thranduil can clearly see the sheer _lust_ shining through them.

As he hasn’t yet decided what he’ll do with Legolas’ mouth, he decides to be careful of where he puts it for now and doesn’t make good on the threat. Instead, he straightens again, shifting to sit neatly behind Legolas’ plump rear. Though Legolas is taut and toned in many places, he’s as soft as ever in his ass, both cheeks full and plush. Thranduil withdraws his hands to squeeze each one, fingers spreading from hip to crack. Legolas moans brokenly as Thranduil kneads him, still pitifully arched off the floor. Feeling strangely merciful, Thranduil even spares one hand to drop between Legolas’ trembling thighs, where he grabs Legolas’ swinging cock. It’s already rock hard in his palm, and it pulses hotly when he squeezes it, earning a languid moan. 

Thranduil sighs, “You do like to be broken down, do you not? ...Such a shame... a prince should not be so easily dominated, ion nín... I will have to break you of this nasty habit.” Squeezing Legolas again, this time just a tad too tight, he chuckles over Legolas’ whimper, “I see I have much to teach you.” Legolas tries to pitch his hips into another, and Thranduil swats his ass once to still him, deciding, “But that must be for another time. Tonight... I think you should reap what you sow.”

When Thranduil tilts forward to grind the hard outline of his cock into Legolas’ tender ass, Legolas’ squirming only increases tenfold. He doesn’t quite _move_ , only writhes and tries to press his ass back into the imprint of Thranduil through his robes. It’s a horribly wanton display, one that Thranduil’s sure would topple any king, whether Legolas were a prince or a boy from the stables. Having had imminent success seducing his own lovers—though, in Legolas’ case, he resisted as long as he could—he has no doubt that, no matter the circumstances, they still would’ve found their way into each other’s bed.

Or, perhaps, Legolas would’ve still found his way to Thranduil’s floor, especially if he insisted on remaining so terribly insolent. Remembering tonight’s display, Thranduil dips to tug viciously at Legolas sac and growl, “So, ion nín... do you think yourself worthy of a king’s cock?” Legolas shudders at the very word. “A servant would not be, though I have been known to fuck them anyway. In fact, I have used hundreds of them before you came along, and they each begged far better than you. Perhaps, if you wish to end this, I will do so again...”

“No,” Legolas suddenly starts, for the first time since the game began. “Ada, _please_ —” He ends with a muffled cry, tears forming in the corners of his eyes as Thranduil tugs his sac again, none too gently. He’s become a warrior, and he should manage to take it. His shaft still pulses hard against Thranduil’s knuckles. Thranduil kneads the fragile stones while Legolas licks his lips and tries again, “Please, I beg of you, use me, _take me_ , I... ahhh...” Thranduil twists, and Legolas breaks, squirming deliciously in Thranduil’s arms. A steady stream of nearly unintelligible pleas fall from his lips, and Thranduil memorizes the enjoyable sound of each and every one.

He still asks over them, “Do you beg me as a servant or a lover, ion nín? I am afraid you have confused me as to which you are...”

“Whichever,” Legolas wails, cheek still pressed faithfully to the floor. “A servant, a lover, your little leaf, an unworthy animal, if you wish it! I am whatever you want!”

Thranduil lazily releases Legolas’ sac, to Legolas’ sob of relief, only to clench around the base of his cock again, hard enough to make him choke. “I am not sure that is wise.” With a snort, Thranduil muses, “I doubt your delicate body could take being used so brutally; your father has clearly spoiled you too much.” But while he talks, he leans over, presenting his free hand to Legolas, and when he orders, “Open your mouth,” Legolas obeys.

Shoving inside, Thranduil fills Legolas’ mouth with two fingers, and Legolas whimpers and immediately suckles on them without even having to be told. Another night, Thranduil might praise him for it. Tonight, Thranduil merely strokes Legolas’ velvet tongue. When he adds a third finger, he pushes them further, only to draw them out again and begin to fuck Legolas’ mouth. Legolas does his best to behave, to lap away at them with this tongue and take the harsh treatment without gagging. It’s an impressive feat, given that Thranduil is none too gentle, and Legolas has long had difficulty sucking cock. It’s something Thranduil had meant to break him of, and now that list of delights to teach is growing ever longer. 

By the time Thranduil pulls his fingers out, they’re soaking, and Legolas tries to follow them with his tongue. Thranduil hisses, “Down,” and Legolas quickly presses his cheek back to the floor, hands limp at his sides. Thranduil gives his cock an affectionate stroke for a reward, then quickly stills again, but it does its job—Legolas keens happily and bucks into it. Thranduil draws back to slide the wet hand down Legolas’ crack, right down to his hole. It clenches instantly, and Thranduil rubs it with expert skill, until it’s dilating open enough to shove one blunt finger inside. 

Legolas grits his teeth, tensing, but Thranduil orders nonchalantly, “Relax, ion nín,” and Legolas clearly tries to listen. Thranduil works his way inside, pushing just a little deeper at a time, until he can crook and stroke at Legolas’ shuddering walls. Then he withdraws to thrust inside, and he fucks Legolas open on it until he can add a second finger, then a third in quick succession, just barely wet enough to manage. Legolas lets out a helpless whimper and spread his legs wider. They’re trembling so hard it’s a wonder he can keep himself up. Thranduil keeps a tight hold on his cock, clamping it down lest he should think of spilling himself early.

Legolas makes a wholly delicious sight from any angle, but tonight’s view is particularly stunning. Watching his pink, puckered hole stretch wider around Thranduil’s fingers is incredibly erotic. Only centuries of excellent self-control keep Thranduil from simply undressing and sheathing himself inside Legolas’ pliant body. He can tell that Legolas wants it, perhaps even expects it. But this is a lesson and a punishment, and true sex would be too much of a reward. So Thranduil only fingers Legolas, swiftly and efficiently, until Legolas is covered in a thin sheen of sweat and thrusting steadily back, hips seemingly beyond his own control. He fucks himself on Thranduil’s hand indeed like an animal, with his ass presented in the air and his face still against the ground. It’s almost pathetic, in a wholly arousing sort of way. Thranduil knows that if he doesn’t break and use Legolas’ hole or mouth, he’ll wind up in the bath afterwards with his own hand. Perhaps, if Legolas is very good, he’ll allow Legolas to join him and have Legolas drink it up afterwards. For now, he fucks Legolas on three fingers, and finally, Legolas bursts, “ _Ada_! Please! _Please_!”

“How unbecoming of a prince,” Thranduil muses.

Legolas growls in frustration and sobs, “Ada, I am _sorry_! Please, I am, fuck me—I need it—AH!” And then, as Thranduil pumps his cock a single time, he screams, hips bucking back to impale himself a final time, and his cock spurts across the floor. Thranduil doesn’t milk it out, merely holds it, denying Legolas extended pleasures, though Legolas still spills a fair amount. Thranduil digs his fingers into Legolas’ rear and holds them there, deliberately curling away from the spot he knows will send Legolas into bliss. Legolas finishes himself on what little he can get, and then Thranduil pull his hands away from both places. Legolas collapses.

He wipes each clean on the backs of Legolas’ thighs. Then he gives Legolas’ round ass a final smack, hard across both cheeks, and Legolas winces and whimpers. 

When Thranduil rises to his feet again, there’s little to do to adjust himself—he’s remained pristine, fully dressed, and hasn’t so much as broken a sweat. His robes are tented, but he knows well enough how to handle that. He eyes the broken mess of his son for a moment, then coldly commands, “You ruined your Ada’s floor, Legolas. That suggests animal rather than servant—if you are going to present yourself as lower, at least know how low you have truly fallen.” 

He turns as soon as he’s finished his crushing verdict, ready to head to his bathing chambers, but Legolas calls weakly after him, “Ada...?” He doesn’t seem to have any other words. Thranduil finds it difficult to blame him.

With a weary sigh and a foolish spot of weakness, Thranduil decides, “You may still join me in the bath, I suppose, and then the bed I had meant to share with you.” He glances over his shoulder to add, “After you have licked up your mess, that is.”

Thranduil leaves without waiting for answer. But as he turns into his bathing chambers, he isn’t surprised to see Legolas eagerly obeying.


End file.
